


age before beauty

by trenchford (bonestilts)



Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: Character Death, M/M, also treats blake like a baby which he absolutely is, will thinks he's protecting blake when really he's just a strained gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-23
Updated: 2020-01-23
Packaged: 2021-02-19 06:35:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22373479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonestilts/pseuds/trenchford
Summary: In which Schofield tries to deny himself all pleasures in relation to Lance Corporal Blake. In the end it's all wasted anyway.
Relationships: Lance Corporal Blake/Lance Corporal Schofield, Tom Blake/Will Schofield
Comments: 34
Kudos: 255





	age before beauty

**Author's Note:**

> this was written after my first 1917 viewing (fuckk meeeee) but i saw that no one else had posted for them on here so i waited n thank god other ppl ship these two. y'all are real warriors for writing for them and ily. keep up the great work everyone! <3
> 
> also i had no beta so im sorry for any mistakes! pls let me know :)

They’d never done anymore more than rut. They couldn’t risk it, despite how many times Blake had whined for it—for them to go further—but Schofield wouldn’t let him. He’d slap his hands away whenever they crept down the front of his breeches, fingers desperate at the waistband.

And it was only allowed in the dark, once the sun fell past the dirt and the stars shone over their heads. Schofield reasoned with Blake that it was safer with the lack of light. That way it would be harder for possible disrupters to recognize them, to catch a glimpse of their faces in the shadows; but it wasn’t often he believed that.

Perhaps it was because Schofield couldn’t bear to see the look on Blake’s face during those moments of pure bliss. They happened so rarely, and Schofield knew how incredible it felt to escape the monstrosity of their reality even just for a few minutes, even if it meant sharing something so personal with another man. Touching another man in that manner.

Or maybe it was because Schofield cared too much. He didn’t want to let himself in on something he knew he couldn’t keep. As painful as it was to accept; Schofield knew damn well that they weren’t getting out of here. Alas he denied himself the pleasures of knowing Blake so intricately, so passionately, for the sake of his own survival.

So, when Blake cornered him against the wall of crumbling earth, Schofield would close his eyes. He’d let Blake slot himself nice and close, leaning his body into Schofield’s, chest to chest, his face jammed under Schofield’s shirt collar, mouth open against the hot skin there.

“Quiet, stay quiet,” Schofield would plea, nudging his leg out from the wall and between Blake’s thighs. Blake liked it when he allowed him to rub himself off against Schofield.

“Speak for yourself.” He’d smirk against his neck. Blake’s chubby hand curled over his shoulder and making its way to Schofield’s mouth, covering it with his palm. He must have been the one making noises.

They’d stay in that position until both their hips stuttered on release, pushing impossibly closer, tighter against on another. Gripping thick clothes white knuckled, sometimes shoving their entire fist into one another’s mouths to shut them up—it was usually Blake’s mouth—or tangling fingers in gritty, unwashed hair.

If Blake finished before Schofield, which happed more often than not, he’d reached for the front of his breeches; wanting so bad to touch him. Or even drop to his knees and look up pleadingly. Schofield declines Blake every time.

Schofield doesn’t think about it when they’re not together, he finds himself quite skilled at compartmentalizing. He even tries to ignore the thoughts while staring Blake in the face, somewhat afraid that he’ll give in to them while in broad daylight.

Blake taps him on the shoulder one day. “Come on. We’re on water duty.”

When Schofield looks up from his lap he sees that Blake has far too many canteens strung over his shoulder. “And here I was thinking we’d just got off it.”

Blake averts his gaze, looking positively guilty. “I may or may not have said something snappy to Lieutenant Leslie. He was in a bad mood.”

Schofield laughed, to Blake’s apparent dismay. He rose to his feet and took some of the canteens from his friend, leading the way. It seemed to always be them two fetching the water thanks to Blake’s inability to close his mouth when need be.

“I see, you finally tried your hand at some humor.”

“Sod off.” Blake scoffed, “I’m plenty funny when I want to be.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.” He said with a playful smile, though Blake couldn’t see it.

They made their way through the shrub and low hanging trees, gliding down the rocky hill and towards the fresh water creek; it was the only one left that did without any rotting cow corpses. Schofield had learnt in his limited time near the frontlines that the Germans would do absolutely anything to have them dead, including poisoning them.

They fill the canteens in silence, each pretending they were keeping track of which one belongs to who. It doesn’t take long to complete the task, or for Blake to get bored and suggest they do something else.

“Why don’t we go in for a dip?”

Schofield frowns, “I washed my uniform last time we were down here.”

“We don’t need to get them wet.” Blake suggested, cocking an eyebrow towards Schofield; who glared back. It was too risky and they both knew it, if only they were both in agreement.

Schofield sighed, he placed the last of the canteens down with the others in their makeshift nest of dry grass. He turned on his heels where he crouched and watched Blake standing by the water.

Tone strong with affection, “You’re a sneaky man, Lance Corporal Blake.”

“I like it when you use my title.” Blake’s eyes are dark, zeroed in on Schofield. They’re a few feet apart but Schofield can still see the way Blake’s breathing picks up, how his chest rises sharply. His intent is clear as day.

“Have you gone mad? We couldn’t possibly do anything here.”

“Oh, come off it. We’ve not had the chance for far too long, I’m practically bursting at the seams.” Blake’s round cheeks are blooming with colour, from where Schofield’s crouched he looks to be glowing. He’d be lying if he said the sight of the younger man’s desire and enthusiasm wasn’t appealing. “And you know as well as I do that we’re days away from being ordered to the frontline. There’s no privacy up there.”

“There’s no privacy here, either.”

“This could be our last.”

Schofield peered around, listened for anyone else over the gentle movement of the creek. He failed to hear signs of soldiers nearby.

“We’re alone, Scho.” Blake pointed out, as if able to read the Schofield’s mind.

“They’ll come looking for their water.”

“We won’t last long enough for them to notice it gone.”

Schofield shook his head, laughing shortly out through his noise. “Ha-hah.”

He didn’t want to admit that Blake had a point, as the younger of the two he had a reputation with Schofield of not managing to last very long. And as much as Schofield wanted to smile fondly at the fact, to simply card his fingers through Blake’s disheveled hair and bicker on about how youthful he was — he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

Because that was the dreadful truth; that Blake was so young. He was barely a man and yet so adamant about what he wanted, what he yearned for with Schofield. Always wanting to go further, to dive deeper into the mess they’ve created and inevitably make the impact more severe. Schofield didn’t think he could handle being responsible for giving him that, knowing the potential damage it could have on them both. As the eldest, he needed to be better.

“Ten minutes, that’s all I need. I promise you.”

 _But it’s daylight._ Schofield wanted to fight back. _They’ll know what we’re doing, they’ll suspect it._ Schofield rose from the ground and slowly stepped closer to where Blake was untying his boots. _They’ll kill us if they find out._ He follows Blake’s actions when he begins unbuttoning his jacket. _They’ll shoot us straight through the skull before word is even able to reach camp._ With trousers dropped in the dust, Schofield trails after Blake as he wades into the stream. _They won’t tell your family why._ He gives in to Blake’s calloused palms running rough over his pectorals.

_They deserve to know why._

Seeing Blake stark naked didn’t give Schofield any certain thrill, he’d witnessed it a number of times; everyone had. But having his hands on him certainly did. Blake massaging the knot out of his shoulder blade while lowering him down into the water, soothing him through the initial chill — that welcomed a spike of excitement within him.

They were so desperate, relying on nothing but teared photographs of loved ones or faux sweethearts. Some of the men bought their material, some of them were lucky enough to have a double bed at home and therefore sent it as a reminder, and some of them found comfort in the touch of one another.

It was pure deviancy, Schofield knew it, he made sure Blake knew it; but it didn’t stop them.

“Two minutes is up.” Schofield uttered suddenly, vaguely uncomfortable with their location and Blake’s daring behavior.

“Stop counting down and come back to me.” Blake said in return.

He did. Schofield turned around in the water, now up to his first rib, and enveloped Blake’s smaller body in his arms, pressing him right up against his bare chest. He felt the boy sigh. Although Schofield had viewed Blake naked before, he’d never felt it.

“Blake,” he starts, aware of the hardness between Blake’s legs. And equally aware of the hardness between his own. “Not here, we can’t—let’s go back to the barracks.”

Without any warning, Blake leans back and surges up to press his lips against Schofield’s. He grunts in surprise and frowns into the kiss. Schofield rips Blake off him by his freckled shoulders.

“Stop. I said not here.”

“Please, Scho.” He moves forward and attempts at kissing Schofield again, but is instead met with a firm hand to the sternum, holding him back so that only their noses touch. Blake looks wounded, eyebrows knitted into an expression not dissimilar to begging.

“Quit it. I’m going back, we’ve kept the others waiting long enough.”

Now he looks angry. “What’s wrong with you?” Blake scowls.

“What’s wrong with _you?”_

There’s a moment of silence that leaves them to stare at each other with differing emotions. The air is still until Blake turns away and shifts back towards the rocks where their clothes are lying; probably still warm. Schofield follows him, having nowhere else to go.

They dress in silence, Blake with his arse on the grass while Schofield tries his hardest not to wince at the sticky feeling of dry material on his dripping skin. He doesn’t know whether to break the silence or not, isn’t sure whether it’s appropriate to speak; if Blake wants him to say something. Typically, Schofield is the one who diffuses any tense situation, but he’d always had a good reason to, now he’s only troubled by his own mental state. He doesn’t know how to communicate that to Blake, he’s supposed to be better than that. The bigger man, but—

_This could be our last._

Schofield stops lacing up his boots. He sits back on the grass and peers over at Blake. He’s only just got his breeches on, fiddling with the buttons at the front; his undershirt soaked through and showing of Blake’s pale skin underneath. Schofield scoots over, waddles on his knees in the dirt and advances on Blake’s small form.

He doesn’t say anything, only places his thumb under Blake’s chin and guides it up. Their eyes meet and Schofield recognizes the anguish flashing in the sweet blue of Blake’s irises, they mirror his own. Schofield nods before slowly tilting Blake’s jaw further, colliding their mouths softly.

Blake makes a strangled noise, perhaps at the delicacy of the kiss or because Schofield has finally let in. If this was his last chance with Blake, the last time he’d be allowed to cradle his head between his hands, to smear his lips down his neck and behind his ear, to hold him tight and feel his overbearing heartbeat rock into Schofield’s — then he’d be a fool not to take it.

Blake falls back, dragging Scofield on top of him; where he finds that neither of them had calmed down during their spit in the water. Schofield moves knee to press up between Blake’s thighs, he balances himself on one elbow beside Blake’s head and looks down on him closely.

Blake’s eyes are open, they’re never closed, and he’s gazing up at Schofield with what can only be described as awe. It makes Schofield throb inside his breeches.

“I want more.” Blake says hoarsely, face flushed with arousal but serious. “I don’t—you can’t—please, let me have more this time.”

 _Our last._ Schofield blinks hard, letting out a shaky breath. He can’t bring himself to respond verbally, throat constricted with emotion, and he nods quickly. _Yes, yes. Take it, have me._ Blake gasps, fingers grabbing at Schofield’s tunic so to bring him closer, crushing their mouths together in promise. Then, Blake’s hands leave Schofield’s shirt and press down between them, working at his own buttons, the ones he’d done up only moments ago.

He’s moving so quickly that Schofield has to return to leaning on his elbow so he can pin Blake’s wrists to the fabric over his hip. “Slow down, we have time.”

Blake looks like he’s about to begin laughing, or crying, Schofield can’t tell. “Funny that.”

Schofield takes control, letting Blake’s hands rest while he picks up where he’d left off. With a touch of noses and an almost silent “Alright?” followed by a mouthed _yes,_ Schofield slides his hand between military material and hot fluttering skin. He wraps his fingers around Blake’s length and swallows the sounds tumbling from his lips. Schofield wonders if he’s ever been touched before, wonders if ever by a man; finds that he wants to find out everything there is to know about Blake and knows the possibility to do so is agonizingly weak.

With each twist of his wrist, Blake curves his back against the soil beneath them, pressing his face closer to Schofield’s and pants against his gritted teeth. It drives Schofield insane, the whimpering mess he’s created of Blake just by curling his first around his leaking cock — he’d have done it a lot sooner if only he knew how rewarding it truly was. Blake’s almost thrashing, driving his hips in time with Schofield’s pumping, he’s got an arm around the back of Schofield’s neck which forces his nose at an odd angle against Blake’s burning cheek.

“I want…” the man beneath him whines, swallowing loudly as if he hadn’t in quite some time.

“Anything.” Schofield says urgently. “Anything you want, I’ll do.”

“Yours—” Blake chokes, “I want yours, too.”

Schofield surprises himself by acting immediately, letting himself drop against Blake’s heaving chest so he can tend to his own breeches with his unoccupied hand. It doesn’t take long to release himself and before he’s got both of their cocks in a single fist. The wet sounds the action sends a wave of heat directly to Schofield’s face.

This time, neither lasts longer than the other. Schofield’s got his thumb tracing the head of Blake’s cock, rubbing against his slit until he feels the first spurt and returns his hand back to the base; wringing it out of him. Blake’s face is scrunched tight and Schofield wants to pepper kisses on the wrinkles at the bridge of his nose.

They lay there breathing into each other’s mouths.

“You kept your eyes open.” Schofield reels back, frowning at Blake’s satisfied expression. “You never keep your eyes open. I’m proud of you.”

Schofield laughs, slapping Blake on the chest while he gets up off the ground. “Cut it out and get your uniform back on. We’ve got canteens to deliver.”

“Aye-aye, captain.”

* * *

Blake’s losing blood, and fast. His hands keep slipping from Schofield’s, slimy and glistening in the sun. They’d both made their way to the ground after a brief frenzy of hands and coats.

Blake’s face is pale, noticeably drained of colour and is taking on a greyish green hue; to which makes Schofield feel the need to be violently ill. Whether the correct choice or not, he’d admitted that Blake was going to die, said it directly to his face.

_“Am I dying?”_

_“Yes, I think you are.”_

And watched as he drew in a shuddering breath and finally stopped fighting back the tears that had threatened to fall long ago.

At first glance, Schofield was certain he’d be able to patch him up, that perhaps it was possible for the two of them to reach an Aid Post; to do anything, really, anything to help stop the profuse amount of blood from pissing out Blake’s stiffening body.

But then Blake had been unable to stand. He’d released an animalistic scream when Schofield attempted to pick him up and drag him; tried to convince Schofield that he’d be as good as new with a short rest. That all he needed was to close his eyes for a bit. And Schofield abruptly realized that Blake wouldn’t be going anywhere.

“Talk to me. Keep talking to me.” Blake blubbered, shrill with alarm. There’s blood on his lip.

Something thick clogged Schofield’s airways and despite his best efforts, he couldn’t make a sound. Instead he dug his knees deeper into the loose dirt and tried his hardest to keep Blake from falling apart. He shushed the boy, albeit brokenly, and brushes the sweat matted hair back from his forehead.

There’s blood spurting from the wound, spreading across Blake’s uniform like a wet plague and Schofield doesn’t know what else to do. The pour is relentless no matter the amount of pressure Schofield applies.

“Please. Talk to me.” Blake was near sobbing, mouth twisting around the howls of his distress. His open crying went against the Lance Corporal’s usual stoic persona. Although Schofield had never told his friend, Blake would always remain one of the most valiant soldiers Schofield had ever had the pleasure of fighting beside.

“Scho, please mate…”

He wants so badly to tell Blake that he’ll make it, that he’ll be on his feet and back on their way to meet his brother. But he’s never lied to him before, and Schofield doesn’t think he’ll be able to forgive himself if he starts now.

Blake’s hold on Schofield was beginning to falter—fingers twitching involuntarily in his own bloodbath—and ice-cold fear gripped at Schofield’s core. He tightens the embrace. He’s got one hand around the back of his neck, supporting the weight, and one entirely unrecognizable clutching at Blake’s. Stained red and telling.

He almost wishes they were still wrapped around Blake’s cock. That they’d never thought to get up from the edge of that creek, that they still had the luxury of sneaking around; instead of this. The internal suffering seems a whole lot more preferable now.

“You said anything—anything I want.” Blake’s choking on air itself, gurgling on what Schofield can only assume is more blood from the back of his throat. Schofield yearns for it to end, all he wants is for the pain to be done with. “I want you to talk to me.”

He closes his eyes instead of following Blake’s demand. He doesn’t want to open his mouth, isn’t ready to say anything else other than an apology. Schofield doesn’t want to live with the knowledge of the last thing he uttered to Blake; he can’t remember a single exchanged word from the past twenty minutes and would rather keep it that way.

Blake’s requests fade. _They deserve to know how you go, Blake. I’ll make sure they know, and they’ll celebrate how brave you are. I’ll tell them how lovable you are, too; how much I love you. They’ll know it all._

Schofield shakes his head and is unable to watch the life drain from a face he hadn’t yet been able to trace with his fingertips, cataloging each dip and curve. What was once lively and animated now appears gaunt and helpless.

He leans down, crowding over Blake’s smaller body completely, wants to feel his warmth and the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart.

But doesn’t press close enough out of fear that he won’t be met with either of those things because Blake’s gone eerily quiet. Schofield can’t be certain whether his rattling breath has stopped entirely due to the loudness of his own head.

After a stretched minute, it becomes clear that Schofield needn’t strain his ears any longer.

“It wasn’t the last time.” He manages wetly, jostling the limp hand still intertwined with his own. “You hear me, Tommy? Not the last time.”

**Author's Note:**

> please leave comments for me so i can leave u kisses. mwah


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